What I Do:

words...

...music

...retreats

...workshops

She made her home of finest silkthreaded intricately between the alliums;twin batons with dry, brown remnantsof sparkling summer days held aloftlike wisps of the sulfur-scented smoke that hangsin the humid dusk of a July celebration.I name the tiny creature Charlotte,what else; talk to her as I clear away detritus.Even with her long legs, she’s but a speck; delicate, dancingon the gossamer tightrope she's stung for herselfone hundred and eighty times her own height above ground.My gloved hand reaches out automatically,to sweep away the threads that hold her life togetherwhere dew gathers and wheremeals deliver themselves to her doorstep.Over my head a raven calls and I pauseA breeze shakes her home and Iimagine her eight knees quaking.And though it means that these two, the Allium Towers will be all that remainbetween the rocks near the tree loaded with gnarly, sweet apples,I withdraw my arm of destructionleaving Charlotte in her penthouse of silkat the edge of Beryl’s garden.